


Last Licks

by bjfic_archivist



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst, Canon, Drama, Episode Related, Fluff, Gap Filler, M/M, No Slash, Romance, Season/Series 04, Season/Series 05, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-03-07
Updated: 2005-03-07
Packaged: 2018-12-27 10:39:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12079398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjfic_archivist/pseuds/bjfic_archivist
Summary: Brian counts down the days until Justin leaves for Hollywood; a post-season four 'fic, with no season five spoilers.





	Last Licks

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

Justin lasts three entire days between Brian asking him to move into the loft and telling him that he's been simultaneously invited to work on the "Rage" movie in Hollywood for six months. It's a late night, they're eating Chinese take-out, and Justin comments on how nice it is to have real, honest-to-God furniture again, bouncing the heel of his foot lightly against one of the legs of the chair he's currently occupying as if for confirmation of it being there.

Brian minces a bite of shrimp between his teeth, chews, and swallows before answering. "If worst ever came to worst, we could have just transferred the contents of your old bedroom here. You've got enough shit to choke a horse," he snorts, but it's affectionate chiding, and Justin feels a pang in his chest. He knows he should tell Brian about his plans sooner rather than later, because they've both done their share of keeping secrets from one another in the past, and it's an unspoken agreement between them not to make the same mistake again.

They eat in pleasant silence for a few more minutes, and Justin finally decides to take the plunge. "You could always move it into storage in your attic or something," he suggests nonchalantly, tacking on his next words with the plainest face he can muster: "so they'll be there when I get back."

"You going somewhere?" Brian is quick to catch on, and immediately Justin can feel the other man's eyes searching his face for the words he's trying to get out. He swallows and sets his fork down just a little too carefully.

"Hollywood," he explains. "Brett said they could really use my input in the art department, so he invited me back." His feels a flush creep up his neck and chances a glance at Brian for his reaction. He silently curses the man for having such an impressively impassive poker face.

Brian's eyebrows raise minutely. "How long?" he queries, popping the last piece of broccoli on his plate into his mouth. Justin stabs at a stray bit of meat before answering.

"Six months, give or take," he finally says. He wonders if it sounds like a prison sentence to Brian, or if it's just him. He wishes, even, that he could hate Brian even a little bit for making him feel conflicted over actually going in the first place. 

"It's an amazing opportunity," Brian replies, snatching his plate and silverware up and padding to the kitchen. Justin shovels his last forkful of noodles into his mouth and follows, plunking his dirty dishes on the counter next to Brian's. "When are you leaving?" his lover asks, and Justin can tell he's at least vaguely displeased on principle by the way his forehead creases slightly and the corners of his mouth tighten. 

"A little over a week-and-a-half, I guess," Justin admits guiltily, knowing that actually being able to provide an answer means that he was already planning on going. "But I mean, maybe it's best if I stay here," he adds lamely.

"You're fucking going," Brian snaps, "if I have to put you on that fucking airplane myself. You're going to go to Hollyweird," he enunciates, scrubbing at the dishes pronouncedly, "and you're going to help make Rage into a movie star, and you'll be a bigger fucking success than you've ever dreamed." He reaches around Justin to pull the dishwasher open and loads it quickly, shutting it with a dull thud and then walking off. Justin stands near the sink and watches his lover's retreating back silently. 

'What about you?' he wants to say. 'What about us? Is there going to *be* an us five, six months from now, or will you have decided that whatever we have isn't worth trying to preserve while we're on opposite ends of the country?' Instead, he hunkers down on the couch - there's a couch, now, too - next to Brian, letting his head nuzzle the other man's shoulder as Brian channel-surfs, looking through the TV more than at it. "I'll miss you a lot," Justin tells him softly. No excuses, no promises, no heartfelt declarations of love - they don't need them, and somehow, that knowledge affords Justin more comfort than Brian saying those previously assumed "magical" three little words ever could.

"I know," Brian replies after a long moment of blinking at the television, and slips his arm around Justin's shoulders.

\--

A week before Justin leaves, he breaks the news of his "extended vacation" in California to the rest of the gang. Michael expresses his relief that Justin's presence will help to keep their artistic integrity of creating Rage in-tact; Hunter rattles of a list of female celebrities whom Justin is supposed to try his damnedest to collect autographs from. Debbie squeezes him against her hard enough to make him wince, and Ben politely pats him on the shoulder and tells him to be safe. Ted and Emmett regale him with Hollywood gossip like the queens they are, and when Emmett relays the name of a closeted celebrity he's fucked, Justin smugly details his recent conquest of Connor James.

Brian does a decent enough job of pretending as if the ensuing seven days are just like any other week, but Justin knows him too well to know that it's just an act. He doesn't point out that Brian brings a lot of his work home and then sets it aside completely while they eat dinner and take in a movie. He manages to keep a satisfied smile to himself when he overhears Brian telling Michael that he's "not really in the mood" for Woody's/Babylon one evening, and spends the night fucking Justin's brains out from the comfort of their - yes, their; it's no longer just an accidental figure of speech - own home instead. 

Three days before Justin's planned departure, Brian calls at around five-ish, muttering something about how a deadline at work just got moved up and that he won't be home until around at least 8:00. "You don't have to wait up," Brian says, sounding tired, but Justin insists he'll start something for dinner. "That way, we can still hit Babylon afterwards, like you wanted," he asserts cheerfully. 

But eight 'o' clock rolls around and slowly melts into nine, and the stirfry Justin had finished over an hour ago probably shouldn't sit out on the counter for too much longer, and finally, Brian slides open the loft door. His hair looks like he's run his hands through it more than a few times, and his tie hangs limply around his neck with the first two buttons of his shirt undone. "Hi, honey," he rasps, setting his briefcase down tiredly on a bare expanse of counter. "I'm home."

"I can see that," Justin notes, helping Brian shrug off his suit jacket. He tilts his head up for a soft kiss and nods at the already-set table. "I made dinner." 

"I can see that," Brian teases back, but glances at the place settings gratefully. They eat quietly, Brian offering up bits of information about his latest account and how he's working his last ball off, and Justin laughs and smiles appreciatively at all of the appropriate moments and thinks about how much he's going to miss nights like this when he's on the opposite end of the country. 

After they finish eating and the kitchen and dining room are cleaned up to Brian's satisfaction (even in his fatigued state, Brian is still charmingly and slightly obsessive-compulsive about cleanliness), Brian begins stripping out of his work clothes, fingers clumsily pushing at buttons. His belt is unbuckled and pulled out of the loops of his pants, and his shirt slides off his shoulders and onto the floor alongside quickly peeled-off socks and shoes. He doesn't look very surprised when Justin pushes him gently onto the couch and straddles his legs, but he crooks an eyebrow anyway. "What-?"

"Ssshh," Justin purrs, nipping his ear before nudging Brian's lips into a kiss. Their groins rub together, and Justin snakes his hand into Brian's open pants, flattening his palm and curling his fingers around Brian's cock. Brian retaliates by gripping Justin's hips and pulling the boy down against him, and Justin squirms as his hand gets trapped between them. He makes a small noise as Brian grasps his face, then leans up to trace Justin's open, slightly panting mouth with the tip of his tongue. "Were you trying to seduce me, little boy?" he rasps, nipping at Justin's chin.

Justin manages to wiggle his hand free and runs his palms up and down Brian's sides. "Something like that," he murmurs. "You're a tough one, Mr. Kinney," he continues, pressing wet, hot kisses purposefully to Brian's throat. "But I don't give up that easily." Brian makes a strangled noise, and Justin takes it as a sign of encouragement. "So hot," he murmurs against Brian's neck, which he's delighted to see has started to flush. "Want you like this, want you to have something to think about when I'm jerking off alone for six months." He shifts and begins stroking Brian's cock anew, and Brian tilts his head back and spreads his legs to allow it.

"Slut," Justin whispers against Brian's Adam's apple, quivering as his lover shakily gasps for breath. Brian strokes the soft skin of Justin's back with his fingertips, glaring at him through lowered lashes. Even the re-emergence of the topic of Justin's absence from his loft and town and *life* are not enough to harsh Brian's hard-on, not when Justin is so alive and warm and *here* on top of him *now*, and he rolls his hips as the boy establishes a thrusting pattern with his hand. "But when you're out fucking all the worthwhile hot and horny guys at Babylon, who is it you're thinking of?" Justin breathes, kissing along the older man's jaw. 

"Fuck," Brian hisses, jerking when Justin's thumb brushes over his slit. "You ... asshole," he bites out, head lolling back as Justin drags his tongue down the column of his neck. Justin's strokes speed up, and a few pumps later, Brian comes in his hand, semen making Justin's fingers slick. Mischevously, Justin smudges one sticky finger across Brian's collarbone, then leans down to lap at the thin white smear marring Brian's softly-perspiring skin.

"Yeah," Justin whispers, grinning when he feels Brian's own hand reaching for his crotch. "I knew you couldn't get enough of me."

\--

Sometimes, when Brian is feeling particularly charitable, and/or sluggish/hungover, he allows Justin to burrow against him as the sunlight streams in through slats in the blinds, threatening to interrupt the serenity of their post-coital/sleep-induced haze. It's one of the things Justin looks forward to the most in anticipating the day; not all of the errands he has to run and the places he has to be and the people that he'll be interacting with, but just the simple act of waking up next to Brian's warmth.

This was not to be one of those mornings, however.

"Brian?" Justin calls from the bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with his fists. He notices the bathroom light on and kicks off the duvet, grumbling to himself about how Brian could have at least jerked him off before tending to his own morning rituals.

"Morning, Sunshine," he sing-songs jokingly to the back of Brian's head. The other man doesn't turn around, and Justin finally catches his dark gaze in the mirror. "What's wrong, Brian?" he asks, considerably less playful than before.

"What's wrong?" Brian asks in a low tone that makes the hair on the back of Justin's neck stand up. "What's wrong is that I won't be able to wear my new v-neck vest to Babylon tonight. That's a $130 shirt, and it's just going to sit in my closet for at least a week until this fades?"

"What are you talking about?" Justin asks, bewildered. He grabs Brian's shoulder and spins him around slightly ... and then gasps. A soft, purpling mark, almost a bruise but not really, is in plain sight on the lower right side of Brian's neck. "A hickey?" he says incredulously, gawking a bit.

"Yeah," Brian snaps, scowling. "A hickey. You gave me a goddamned hickey like a fucking teenager." 

"I thought you liked fucking teenagers," Justin says coyly, turning up the wattage of his smile. Brian snorts, but his glare lessens ever-so-slightly. "It'll be easy enough to cover up for work," Justin continues thoughtfully. "And ... well, you could always wear something else to Babylon, or ..." he trails off.

"Or what?" Brian asks, wary when he sees Justin's eyes light up mischievously.

"Well," the boy says, "we could always just stay in again, until it goes away." He has to bite his lip to keep from laughing outright; Brian could be such a fucking drama queen about his appearance and reputation around Liberty Avenue.

"And let you mark me again? I don't think so, you little vampire," Brian growls, and strides back into the bedroom while Justin makes chomping motions with his teeth for good measure.

Work passes rather anticlimatically, much to Brian's relief. His shirt collar more than covers up the obscene mark on his neck, and he manages to nail both his latest sales pitch and the hot spokesman for Pocket Rocket, a line of trendy-looking electronic day planners with a target audience of teenagers and busy twentysomethings on-the-go. Needless to say, Brian's expertise regarding other kinds of "pocket rockets" gives him an easy advantage over any competition the guy has heard from. "You were ... amazing in there," he gasps as Brian angles his hips and thrusts into him again. The door of the stall they're crammed into jiggles a little with their movements; Brian makes a mental note to get it tightened just before he comes.

In such high spirits from his success at work, The Mark, as he'd taken to calling it, falls to the wayside in Brian's mind until he's at the gym that afternoon. He's halfway through a set of reps when Michael greets him, and then pales, a rather uncharacteristic reaction to Brian's grunted "hello". "What's that?" he asks shakily, a pointed finger hovering somewhere near Brian's lower jaw. 

"What's -- oh, fucking-a," Brian swears, struggling a little to lift the bar he's been bench-pressing back onto its holder. Michael grasps it and assists him, then stoops to peer at Brian's neck a little closer. "Stop it," Brian protests, swatting at Michael's hand.

"Is that a -- Brian, do you have a hickey?" Michael gasps, much too loudly. Several gym patrons glance in their direction curiously. 

"Ex-nay on the icky-hay, Mikey," Brian bites out through gritted teeth, but his best friend doesn't let it go that easily.

"Oh my God, it is! Justin did it, right? Wow, I bet you sure gave him a tongue-lashing, so to speak," Michael chortles, on a roll, now.

"Fuck you," Brian growls, but by now, Ted, Emmett and Ben are all trotting over to assess the damage. Ted snickers and reaches a finger out to poke at the offending area, and it's all the inertia Brian needs; jumping up from the bench, he grabs his towel and cell phone. Flipping the latter open, he punches "1" on speed dial. 

"Hello?" Justin's voice picks up just before the second ring.

"Make something for dinner and go rent some porn," Brian hisses as he stalks out of the main exercise area to the locker rooms. "We're making it an early night."

\--

Justin has his bags packed an entire day before he's set to leave for California, a day punctuated by a whirlwind array of boxes and luggage and spare clothing and emergency shopping trips, and finally culminating in a farewell trip to the diner. Justin insists that he doesn't want a gigantic farewell party, but he'll be damned if Debbie doesn't have the place decorated, gawdily but heartwarmingly, with balloons and a rainbow-coloured banner that reads, "HAVE A SAFE TRIP, SUNSHINE!" A large cake is brought out, and Justin accepts a piece graciously, smirking when Brian waves a proffered slice of his own away and then sneaks bites of his.

"So how are you gonna keep busy for the next six months, Brian?" Debbie asks, her eyes twinkling. "Gotta find someone else to keep your dick happy, huh?" Everyone just snorts, well accustomed to her brashness; but just as Brian is about to pop off an equally crass response, Ted pipes up.

"Who knows, maybe you'll get lucky and find somebody willing to suck your dick *and* your neck," he laughs. Justin bites his lip, but he's unable to stop himself from looking ridiculously pleased. 

"You know, I've heard if you take a frozen spoon and place it over the area for several minutes, it goes away like that," Emmett teases.

"Or there's always the old hairdryer-and-comb technique; you blowdry the area and comb over it lightly and it's supposed to disappear," Ted offers again, laughing even when Brian swats him on the back of the head.

"Okay, enough, you guys," Debbie says sternly after the last chuckles have subsided. "I'm sure it was a fit of passion; Brian and Sunshine are just getting their last licks in. Nothing wrong with that. Now," she segued abruptly, brandishing a spatula. "Who wants another piece of cake?"

When the two finally get back to the loft, Brian has to help Justin stuff a Hollywood guidebook (a practical-as-always gift from Ben and Michael), a couple of raunchy t-shirts from Deb, and a fingerpainting that Gus did especially for him to take on his trip into his already-overstuffed luggage. "Sure is a lot to take with me," Justin sighs as they get the final suitcase relatched for the umpteenth time. Brian, still half-lying across the top of it to squash it down, nods and huffs in response. "And, uh," Justin continues, "there'll probably be three times as much to move back in when I've done my part with the movie." He waits, holding his breath, scared of Brian's reaction.

The older man slowly lifts his gaze, eyes flickering with unreadable emotion. Justin meets it head-on, biting his lip, sure he's about to go mad ... when Brian's mouth falls into a soft smile. "Yeah," he says. "I guess there will be. You've got a lot of shit."

Justin just grins.

\--

Their last night together before Justin has to catch a mid-morning flight is all-too-brief but nonetheless intense. They're both quiet on the way to the airport, contemplative, trying to keep up a nonchalant front for one another. It's been that way since they first met, and Justin wonders if that will always be a mainstay of their relationship, even five or ten years down the road -- communicating without words, more effectively at times than others.

They arrive at the gate just as the flight to Los Angeles begins boarding. Justin shifts his carry-on bag from one hand to the other and takes a shaky breath, at eye-level with Brian's neck because he can't bring himself to meet his eyes yet. He lets out a soft laugh at the hickey, which has just about faded. "Want me to give you another one before I go? You know, so you'll have something to remember me by?" he jokes, blinking steadfastly to keep the tears threatening to pour out at bay. 

Brian smirks and tugs Justin against him, pressing his lips to the boy's forehead and then against Justin's mouth. "You'll never be gone that long, Sunshine," he murmurs. "But you'd better go now, or you'll miss your flight." Justin nods and reluctantly detaches himself, clutching Brian's warm fingers in his own before breaking away completely. "I'll call you when we touch down," he says, and Brian knows it's an unspoken promise. 

He watches Justin's retreating form walk up the runway and disappear inside the plane, allowing his eyes to prickle from the sensation caused from not blinking for several seconds, before turning to go.


End file.
